Caffeine
by Alipeeps
Summary: Sheppard had a headache... A fairly lighthearted little whump fic written for the Sheppard HC LJ Addiction challenge. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_A little, mildly light-hearted whump fic written for the Shep HC LJ "Addiction" challenge. Second chapter to follow shortly…_

_All feedback welcomed._

Sheppard had a headache.

Specifically, he had a self-induced headache and the knowledge that it was all his own fault did absolutely nothing for his misery – or his mood.

The computer screen was starting to blur, no matter how hard he concentrated on it. God damned paperwork. He hated it with a passion. It always seemed to accumulate faster than he could clear it and he had gradually found himself months behind and had taken the desperate decision to pull an all-nighter in a last-ditch attempt to get up to date and get his inbox cleared – even if just for one day.

And now the early dawn light was creeping in through the window, his inbox was still not clear and he was starting to seriously regret the several cups of coffee he had drunk in an attempt to stay awake. He didn't normally drink a lot of coffee and his pounding head was a painfully good reminder as to why; withdrawal's a bitch.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly and tried to concentrate on the latest survey report from the anthropology team stating the many and complex reasons why they wanted to schedule a long-term survey mission to planet MT6-84S. It appeared to have been written by someone who had far too much time on their hands and an over-used copy of Roget's thesaurus. He was pretty sure he'd spent at least five minutes reading the same sentence over and over and he still couldn't make head nor tail of it. He gave up with a groan, leaning back in his chair and arching his aching back, stretching his arms over his head, feeling the tension pulling in his neck and shoulders. This damn report would be confusing if he'd had a full night's sleep; as tired as he was, it was incomprehensible.

He stretched until he thought he heard something crack and then slumped forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands in a pose of abject despair. He decided to admit defeat; Paperwork 1, Sheppard 0. He glared at the computer screen with weak loathing and told it, "You win this time, my friend.. but the battle is far from over." He rose stiffly from his chair on legs half numb from hours of inactivity and shook his limbs out briefly, trying to get some blood-flowing, get some energy back into his tired body.

He checked his watch: 5am Atlantis time. Too early to be up and too late to even try and get some sleep. The pain in his temples throbbed and he thought briefly about heading to the commissary for more coffee but quickly decided against it; he'd only be delaying the inevitable and he'd rather deal with the caffeine headache now, while he had a free day, than be suffering while on-duty. He wandered his room restlessly for a moment, unable to settle to anything; the caffeine comedown was making him feel jittery and tense. He sighed in frustration.

To hell with this. He grabbed his water bottle and filled it up from the Ancients' idea of a washbasin in his bathroom, taking a quick swig before snapping the lid closed. He figured he'd go for a run – the exercise would do him good, wake him up a bit, maybe sweat some of the caffeine out of his system. He raised his legs one at a time onto the edge of his desk and stretched briefly, bouncing on his feet a little, loosening up his muscles.

The door slid open as he approached it, revealing the half-lit, empty corridors of a slumbering city. Water bottle in hand, John set out onto a familiar route through the winding corridors of Atlantis, quickly settling into an easy, loping stride. Focusing his concentration solely on the pounding rhythm of his feet hitting the floor, he pushed aside his tiredness, pushed aside the pain in his head, and lost himself in the soothing, oddly absorbing release of physical exertion.

Sheppard often took early morning runs, though admittedly not usually whilst wired on zero sleep and too much coffee, and over time had mapped out a couple of good routes through the city. Sometimes Ronon joined him on his runs, sometimes he preferred to be alone. This morning he took things at a gentle pace till he cleared the main area of living quarters and then took a sharp turn, picking up speed as he set out on a long, winding route that took in some of the remoter parts of this section of the city.. and some pretty awesome views along the way. He often chose this route on nights when he couldn't sleep; the distance was enough to be tiring, and was usually enough to burn off whatever stress or emotion was keeping him awake, and the views of the city on the return leg, as the sun began to rise over the liquid horizon, were stunning – and a timely and pertinent reminder of just how much he had to be thankful for, how lucky he was to be here in this incredible city and to have found a family of sorts amongst the disparate personalities of the expedition.

He ran for a long time, his rhythm steady, his feet pounding the floor. Before long he was breathing hard from the exertion but his breaths remained even and controlled. This was part of what Sheppard loved about running – the chance to switch off, to forget his fears and worries and just lose himself in motion and the rhythmic, controlled push and pull and stretch of muscle and sinew. He felt strong and sure and in control when he ran, perfectly in tune with each movement of his body.

Sheppard ran and ran and forgot about paperwork, forgot his tiredness and his headache. His body moved in its own instinctive rhythm and he let himself get carried away by the drumbeat of his feet hitting the floor, his heart thumping in his chest. He sped through the waking city like a silent ghost, passing through empty corridors, deserted passageways, only vaguely aware of the bright, warm light of the rising sun starting to filter through the patterned glass of the many windows as he headed back into the inhabited areas of the city.

Naturally quick reflexes and years of training had honed his reactions so much that he responded instinctively when a door suddenly opened as he approached it, swerving aside without even making a conscious decision to do so. Not fast enough however, at the speed he was moving, to completely avoid the figure that stepped abruptly into the corridor and right into his path. He had a brief impression of brown hair and a blue science shirt before he slammed heavily into the man and the two of them went down in a tangle of limbs.

Jesus, that hurt. He'd taken the brunt of the fall, twisting instinctively to try and minimise the damage to his unfortunate victim, and his body seemed to ache all over from the impact. A tender throbbing area at the back of his skull informed him in no uncertain terms that his head had hit the floor with a fair amount of force and his caffeine headache had decided to reawaken and join in the party of pain. He groaned softly as a heavy weight lifted itself from across his legs.

"OW! Dammit, Sheppard! Are you _trying_ to kill me?"

He dragged his head up enough to see Dr Rodney McKay clambering awkwardly to his knees whilst giving John a filthy look and launching into what promised to be a lengthy tirade. Sheapprd let his head sink back with a groan.

"What the hell were you doing running around the city at this hour of the morning? And have you never heard of looking where you're going? Ow! I think I've twisted something. This is all your fault, Sheppard! I'll have you know I bruise very easily, you could have done untold damage. Honestly, you military types with your running and your exercise.."

John lay still and let the angry flow of words wash over him. His head really hurt. His body felt bruised and battered, his muscles stiff and painful. Movement seemed like a really bad idea right now.

"Sheppard? Colonel?" McKay finally seemed to have noticed that his angry lecture was not getting much response from John and his words petered out as he crawled over to peer down at Sheppard with something approaching concern. "What's wrong with you?"

Only McKay could make concern sound like an accusation. John shifted weakly. Much as he hated to move right now, lying here on the floor for any length of time was not really an option. With an effort of will, he managed to roll over onto his side and had to stop for a moment, breathing heavily as his vision swam and his head pounded dizzily.

"Sheppard?"

He swallowed. "I'm good." His voice came out sounding oddly thick and slurred.

"You don't look good. You look as white as a sheet." The accusing tone came back with a vengeance, "Are you sick? Why are you out running if you're sick?"

"I'm fine. S'just a headache." John planted a hand firmly on the floor and pushed himself up, clambering slowly and unsteadily to his knees and, with the aid of the nearest wall, eventually to his feet. He stood swaying queasily, not quite feeling secure enough on his feet to let go of that wall just yet, and listened to McKay panic.

"A headache? You went out _running_ with a headache? What are you, insane? Okay, who am I talking to here? Forget I asked that. Only you would think a 5 mile jog is an ideal treatment for a headache. Oh, wait. Did you have the headache _before_ you went jogging? Or only since.. oh, god. Did you hit your head? Are you standing there being all stoic about a serious concussion? I'm calling Carson.."

"No. I'm good. Just gimme a minute.."

The look on McKay's face was profoundly sceptical. "I don't think your definition of good and mine are quite the same, Colonel," he stated a little sharply.

John sighed. His head really did hurt. And the corridor was developing a disturbing tendency to sway gently. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to see Carson, maybe get some Tylenol and then hit the sack; he was starting to feel more than a little the worse for wear for his sleepless night. He looked up to see McKay regarding him with narrowed eyes, his hand hovering over his earpiece.

"AlrtllgoseeCarsn," he mumbled a little resentfully.

"What was that?" McKay needled.

He glared at McKay, who wasn't even trying to hide his smugly superior expression. He knew damn well Rodney had understood his response but the scientist just couldn't resist revelling in his victory.

With a resigned sigh, John turned his back on McKay and set off in the direction of the infirmary. He had taken no more than five steps when the corridor abruptly spun around him and he listed suddenly to the side, dizzy and off-balance. He was vaguely aware of a yelp of surprise from McKay as he stumbled into the wall and then Rodney's face was peering concernedly into his, the scientist's features oddly blurred, as John slid slowly down the wall, McKay's hands on his arms trying to control his descent as his legs gave way beneath him.

The dizzying sensation was making him nauseous and he found himself panting heavily, trying desperately to quell his rebellious stomach. He was distantly aware of McKay's voice, sounding oddly distant even though he could still feel a steadying hand on his shoulder, speaking to someone over the radio. Probably calling Carson. For once Sheppard felt crummy enough that he didn't bother protesting. He really was feeling quite incredibly bad just now; the pain in his head had spiked again, building to a throbbing crescendo, and his vision refused to stop blurring and twisting. He tried closing his eyes to shut out the sight of the corridor swaying and moving but that just made him feel even worse as his screwed-up equilibrium intensified the sensation of falling and spinning, making him swallow convulsively as his stomach roiled.

John's attention was so focused internally, so much concentration required just to breathe though the pain and the nausea and to convince his body _not_ to throw up, that he kind of zoned out a little, losing track of the passage of time as he half-sat, half-lay against the wall with McKay hovering anxiously over him. It seemed to John that he'd only just heard McKay telling Carson to "get down here" when he was startled out of his fugue by a gentle touch lifting his eyelids and a bright light shining into his eyes. He cringed away from the painful light, unable to hold back a cry of pain as his headache surged unbearably, and lashed out blindly, trying to push the flashlight away.

"Easy, son." His wrist was caught in a firm grip and he blinked away the glaring after-images from the flashlight to find Carson's piercing blue eyes peering down at him. John swallowed thickly as the doctor's face blurred and separated into two separate, distinct Carsons before he blinked again and found them quickly merged back together.

"Hey, Doc…" Was that really his voice? It sounded odd - weak and slurred.

Carson's fingers were firm on his chin, holding his head still and the doctor was asking him questions – did he know who he was, did he know where he was – and telling him to follow the unsteady blur of his finger from left to right and back again. He tried his best to comply, his breathing rapid and shallow as he tried to stave off the rising nausea.

"I think he hit his head." Rodney's words floated down to Sheppard from somewhere far away and then hands were leaning him gently forward, fingers running through his hair and he hissed out his pain as they found and probed the tender lump at the back of his skull.

"Okay, let's get him on the gurney."

There were more hands on him now; gripping his arms and his legs, supporting his head as he was lifted bodily into the air. The ceiling swung around dizzily overhead and he groaned, screwing his eyes shut.

"Is he okay?"

"Does he _look_ okay, Rodney? He has a concussion, from the look of things a severe one at that. I need to get him to the infirmary."

The nausea was rising again and John began to struggle against the hands holding to the gurney, trying to roll onto his side, instinctively wanting to curl around his queasy stomach.

"Colonel Sheppard, I need you to lie still for me, son."

John opened his eyes to find two Carsons looking down at him. He blinked owlishly; still two Carsons. John grimaced. "I don't feel so good, doc.." He had trouble forming the words, his voice slurring almost drowsily. His head was pounding horribly. He closed his eyes for a moment as his stomach spasmed, his body twisting involuntarily as he pushed down the urge to retch. When he opened his eyes again there was only one Carson standing over him as the hands pushed him flat on his back and fastened straps to hold him in place.

"I know, son." Carson's voice was calm, as gentle as ever, but there was a frown on the doctor's face and for a moment John's blurry vision cleared enough for him to see the traces of concern in those sharp blue eyes.

"Let's get you to the infirmary and get you checked out."

TBC… 


	2. Chapter 2

_Finally - the concluding chapter to this fic! Sorry for the long delay - hurrah, hurrah, this one is finally complete! ;) _

_It's just a bit of fluff really but I hope you like it...

* * *

The ride to the infirmary was horrendous._

The ceiling blurred and swayed dizzily overhead, leaving John feeling disoriented and queasy. The motion of the gurney aggravated his nausea, making his stomach churn, and he found himself breathing heavily, his mouth open, focusing all his concentration on just not throwing up. Voices washed and swirled around him; Carson's gentle brogue, McKay's strident tones, mutters and murmurs from the medical team as they guided the gurney through the corridors of the city.

His head pounded, the pain surging and ebbing in a constant throb that made his teeth clench and his eyes sting. He groaned and was vaguely aware of Carson's concerned face leaning over him, his words of reassurance sounding tinny and distant in John's ears. "Not long now, son. We're nearly there."

The infirmary lights were bright overhead and John squinted painfully, turning his head to try and escape the glaring brightness. Faces loomed over him, people crowding around the gurney as the straps were loosened. He was vaguely aware of being lifted, the motion making his stomach swim horribly, and swung sideways to land on an infirmary bed. His vision blurred and he screwed his eyes shut, groaning at the dizzy sensation of falling that washed through him.

"Colonel Sheppard? Open your eyes, Colonel!"

The voice was loud, making him flinch, and he reluctantly cracked open an eye, surprised to find Carson leaning over him, a blurry Rodney hovering in the background. They hadn't been there a moment ago, had they?

The Rodney blur's mouth moved. "Oh, thank god!"

He struggled to make sense of his surroundings as Carson gave a relieved smile. "Welcome back, Colonel."

Back? Where had he been? He felt.. odd. Woozy and dizzy and… oh man, his head was pounding. He frowned. "Head hurts.." Was that his voice? It didn't sound like him.. the words came out all wrong, sounding slurred and distorted.

"I know, son." Carson's voice was gentle, reassuring. "I'm sorry about that. We need to check a few things before I can give you anything for the headache…"

John flinched, trying to pull away as Carson firmly pried open an eyelid and shone a bright light into John's eye. He was left with a glaring after-image as Carson repeated the procedure on his other eye. He blinked owlishly, feeling slow and sluggish, and his gaze refocused to find a concerned expression on Carson's face.

"Is he okay?" McKay's voice sounded tinny, distorted.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Carson was leaning over him, speaking slowly and loudly, demanding John's attention. "Do you know where you are, Colonel?"

He struggled to concentrate; he felt strangely woozy, his thoughts jumbled and disconnected. He let his gaze drift past Carson's face to pale green walls that seemed familiar.

"Nfrmry," he mumbled thickly.

"D'you know what day it is, Colonel?"

He frowned. The question took a lot more thought that it should have and he realised slowly, with a vague sense of disquiet, that he didn't know the answer.

"Nnno." He winced; talking made the pounding in his head worse.

"What does that mean?" The high-pitched note of panic in McKay's voice drew his woozy attention and he let his head roll the side, struggling to focus on the hovering scientist. He watched bemusedly as two separate Rodneys crossed their arms indignantly as Carson impatiently shushed them. Him. Whatever.

"John?" Carson's voice, firm and relentless, drew John's wandering attention back to him. "Do you remember what happened? Do you know how you got to the infirmary?"

Thinking was such an effort. It made the pain in his head worse. He was so tired, Just wanted to sleep… "Mmm sleepy.."

"Ah-ah. Stay with me, Colonel. Can't let you sleep just yet. What's the last thing you remember, John?"

He frowned in concentration, trying his best to do what Carson asked.

"Coffee." The word was floating around in his head and it just kinda popped out, falling from his lips without his conscious thought.

Carson frowned.

"Coffee? What the hell does that mean?" There was panic and – fear? - mixed with the impatience in McKay's voice. Nothing made sense. What was McKay afraid of? His head was throbbing painfully and he let out a muted groan, closing his eyes against the glaring lights of the infirmary. He wished the darkness would just take him, swallow him up and let him rest. He was so tired…

"Colonel!" He jerked at the sharp reprimand, wincing as the motion jarred his aching head.

McKay was closer now, standing beside the bed as Carson fussed around in the background. The two of them were talking, words passing back and forth between them but they washed over John in a confusing flow, a muted buzz of conversation that he was happy to let slide by him. His stomach was churning again and he could feel sweat breaking out on his brow as he swallowed desperately against the rising nausea.

A word caught his attention, Carson muttering something about a scan, and then his view of the ceiling was obscured as the Ancient scanner was moved into position over his head.

"Try and stay still for me, Colonel."

There was a muted hum as the machine powered up and he watched through drooping eyelids as lights flickered and blinked on the scanner surface. The glow from the machine was hurting his eyes and he scrunched them shut, regretting the action immediately as the lack of sensory input from his eyes threw other sensations into sharper focus; the pounding in his head was sharp and horrible and his stomach announced its discontent vociferously.

He twisted suddenly on the bed, his hand flailing drunkenly for the rail as he tried to pull himself upward.

"Colonel!" Hands were on his shoulders, trying to hold him down; the scanner was still humming overhead.

"Mmgonbesck…"

His words were slurred, mangled, his lips pressed tightly together as he fought to control his rebellious stomach, but thankfully Carson seemed to understand; hands helped him to sit up and a basin was shoved under his chin just as his guts spasmed and he heaved up the meagre contents of his stomach. His helpless retching only made his head pound all the harder, sitting up made him feel dizzy and the dizziness only made him feel more sick. He groaned miserably as he retched and spat, Carson's hands rubbing soothingly on his back.

There was little in his stomach to bring up – all he'd ingested for the past several hours was water and coffee – and his throat burned from the combination of stomach acid and the acrid aftertaste of coffee.

As his stomach finally emptied itself and he found himself dry heaving and hiccupping, the basin was removed and firm hands guided him carefully back to the mattress. He lay still, his eyes closed, and concentrated on ignoring the lingering traces of nausea as someone wiped his face with a cool cloth.

His mouth tasted foul; he was never drinking coffee again, ever.

"Colonel Sheppard?" He cracked open an eye to find Carson hovering once again; the scanner was gone. The cup Carson was holding out blurred and divided into two before merging again. He swallowed queasily.

"Just a little now, Colonel." Firm hands supported his neck, lifted his head up enough for him to take a hesitant sip or two from the cup of cool, refreshing water. He swilled it around his mouth a little before swallowing.

"Better?" He didn't trust himself to nod but talking made his head hurt so he made do with a half-hearted thumbs up.

The throbbing of his head was distracting, pounding in his ears, making him feel oddly detached from his surroundings. He let himself drift as voices washed and swirled around him, McKay's high-pitched and demanding, Carson's firm and calming. He was vaguely aware that they were discussing him, talking about scan results and brain swelling and concussion and headache and nausea and vomiting and drowsiness and slurred speech and confusion and amnesia. He snapped out of his woozy half-doze at that one. Amnesia? What had he forgotten? The thought of there being a gap in his memory, a period of time lost to him, was unsettling.

He struggled to put thoughts into words. "WhaddavIforgottn?"

Carson moved into his line of sight, his face serious.

"What is the last thing you remember, Colonel?"

He frowned. "Headache."

Carson's face wore a matching frown. "You have a headache or you remember a headache?"

McKay hovered in the background, looking equally confused.

"Both."

Carson nodded. "Okay, you remember having a headache. Is this before or after you hit your head?"

That didn't make any sense. He raised a shaky hand to his head, feeling vaguely for lumps and bumps. "I hit my head?" His voice came out sounding bewildered, oddly plaintive.

"Oh god, he doesn't remember! How can he not remember something like that?"

"It's quite common with a concussion, Rodney, especially where there is loss of consciousness." John's questing fingers found a lump at the back of his head and he hissed in pain, the pounding in his head spiking sharply. Wait? He lost consciousness? He didn't remember that…

Carson's firm grip pulled his hand away from the painful bump and pushed it back down to the mattress. "Am I understanding you right, son? You had a headache _before_ you hit your head?"

John was thoroughly confused. He didn't remember hitting his head, he didn't remember passing out, he didn't remember getting to the infirmary. None of this made any sense and it was freaking him out. And his head _really_ hurt. He thought hard about what he _could_ remember.

"Paperwork. I was doing paperwork." He frowned. "Drank too much coffee. Made my head hurt."

"Paperwork?" McKay's voice had become accusing now and Sheppard winced at the sharpness of his tone. "You said you were going to blitz your paperwork _last night_! Did you…?" His words trailed off, a look of stunned realisation on his face as he and Carson shared a significant look.

"Colonel," Carson's expression was a mixture of sympathy and stern exasperation. "Did you stay up all night drinking coffee and doing paperwork?"

The two of them were looming over him now, one on either side of the bed, glaring down at him disapprovingly. His vision blurred again and for a moment there were multiple Carsons and Rodneys, all staring at him; he was surrounded. He swallowed, blinked furiously, and the duplicates merged back into the originals. What were they asking again? Oh, right. Paperwork. Coffee.

"I think so…"

"Hah! I knew it!" Sheppard cringed as McKay's voice hit a particularly shrill pitch, the scientist launching into an extended rant; the torrent of words flowed over him, making his head spin, and the dizzy, woozy feeling swallowed him up again as he struggled to make sense of Rodney's tirade. He caught references to sheer stupidity, disparaging comments about the military mind, a litany of complaints about bruises and possible broken bones and a recommendation that Carson break out the nice white jacket with all the pretty straps because anyone who went for a run with a caffeine headache was certifiably insane. He closed his eyes in despair, feeling nausea rising again, and opened them again at a soft, cold touch on his arm. He found Carson swabbing the skin at the crook of his elbow, a syringe in hand. The doctor's eyes were calm and reassuring, his expression both concerned and sympathetic, and he was utterly ignoring McKay's ongoing declamations.

There was a sharp sting as the needle pierced his skin and he looked away as Carson slowly, methodically depressed the plunger.

"Are you still feeling nauseous?"

He looked back at Carson and managed a quiet "uh-huh". By the time Carson was swabbing his arm again for the anti-emetic, the injection of painkillers was beginning to take effect and the painful, heavy pounding in his head was finally dulling to a manageable level. Blessed relief.

McKay's lecture on Sheppard's stupidity was also dying down as he slowly became aware that no one other than himself was paying the slightest bit of attention to it. "Well. Has he done himself any permanent damage?" he finally harrumphed, just a little petulantly.

Carson flashed John a somewhat exasperated smile as he disposed of the spent syringe. "Well, he's got a nasty concussion, that's for sure. The headache and nausea are probably going to last for a good while, though I've given him something to take the edge off the worst of it, and we're going to have to keep a close eye on him to make sure nothing else nasty develops."

"But he'll be alright?"

"Aye, I should think so. We'll keep him under observation for the next day or so at least."

That statement took a moment to sink into Sheppard's woozy, sleepy brain and he grimaced. Dammit. Stuck in the infirmary again… and meanwhile, the endless paperwork would once again be piling up…

"Don't think you'll be getting much in the way of sleep either, Colonel," Carson chastised mildly. "We'll be waking you every two hours to begin with to check on your neurological functions."

Despite his vision being slightly blurred, Sheppard could clearly make out the somewhat superior smirk on McKay's face.

"Rodney, can you sit with the Colonel for a moment while I go and organise for one of the nurses to keep an eye on him?"

Now that the pain in his head was under control and the anti-emetic was calming his rebellious stomach, drowsiness was creeping up on Sheppard and he could feel himself starting to drift. He felt like he could just drop off to sleep. He really, _really_ wanted to sleep…. But the thought of being woken again in just a couple of hours bothered him, keeping him hovering on the edge of consciousness.

A chair creaked as McKay lowered himself into it.

It occurred to John that nobody had adequately answered his question.

"HowdIhtmyhed?" he mumbled sleepily.

"By running over perfectly innocent pedestrians who were peacefully going about their business, that's how! Honestly, nobody cares about what injuries I might have sustained from being used as a crash mat by a sleep-deprived caffeine-junkie! Look, see this bruise? I could have been seriously injured – unlike some people…."

Sheppard drifted off to sleep to the comforting sound of Rodney McKay complaining.

".. oh, and I am _never_ letting you drink coffee, ever again!"

* * *

Fin. 


End file.
